


hair care

by spiritscript



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Atsumu does his hair, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Getting Ready, M/M, Mild Euphemisms, Mild Language, pure fluff, that is literally the fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:14:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26739430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spiritscript/pseuds/spiritscript
Summary: “Ya know,” he starts, eyes going back to the small side cabinet, hand picking up and toying with the curling wand, “I do think I’ll be able ta do your hair. I’ve watched ya do it enough. It’s clearly annoyin’ ya. Plus,” he adds with a grin more natural than before,  “I’m just incredible full stop”Atsumu does Kiyoomi's hair
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 23
Kudos: 379





	hair care

**Author's Note:**

> Anyway, I started this like a month ago and pretty much finished it 2 weeks ago and I'm only posting it now because I'm an idiot. Woops

There’s a sigh, a thunk, and a long, frustrated groan that emerges from their small bathroom, it saunters out the door, works its way through the hallway and comes to a complete stop in front of Atsumu. He had been waiting for this to happen in anxious anticipation with a cold cup of coffee and an unopened magazine sitting stoically in front of him. He feels the creases in his forehead deepen as he continues to chew his lip and begins to walk purposefully down the hall, stopping halfway. He didn’t want it to be too obvious that he had been sitting waiting, even if he knows it’s futile to try and hide it.

He takes a breath, composes his face and walks to the door, taking his place against the frame, a hip popped out and his arms crossed lazily, though maybe his shoulders are a little too stiff. A perfectly coy grin dances across his features, and he doesn’t say anything. 

To push now might result in pushing in the wrong direction lengthening a distance that doesn’t exist between them. Pulling wouldn’t work either. Sometimes he just has to wait, sometimes he has to be let in.

Kiyoomi doesn’t acknowledge his entrance, continuing to run his left hand through his hair, attempting to wrap the locks of his fringe into little curls. When one falls back on his face a little flat, his face scrunches and eyes close. There’s a pressure building behind them, a pressure building in his chest, a frustrated vocalisation of all that he cannot control ready to escape. Kiyoomi takes a deep breath in, holds it, and lets it out again. He needs to calm down, he needs to think this through. He begins his breathing exercises, taking stock of himself as he does so. He starts with the top of his head and slowly scans down his face, his shoulders, his torso, his legs until he reaches his feet. Each breath expelling some of the tension in each part of him, relaxing him, until he can open his eyes again. 

“My offer still stands,” Atsumu’s voice comes from over his shoulder when his features have relaxed, and the squaring in his shoulders has given way. 

It’s not a push, just a nudge.

Through the bathroom mirror, Kiyoomi shoots him what should be dangerous glare, but is translated more as exasperation through the filter of his frustration. 

“No.” 

Atsumu nods, he’s willing to accept this, he’s always willing to accept what Kiyoomi says, but that doesn’t mean he wants to. He walks to the cabinet and picks up the little jar of pink cream, he can smell the burning scent of excessive menthol in the bathroom already, but he still holds it out to Kiyoomi in a silent question.

“I’ve just put it on,” he answers. 

Atsumu nods, about to put it back, but decides to slip it into his pocket instead.

They stand silently, Kiyoomi looking at himself in the mirror, and Atsumu looking down at the cabinet strewn with an array of different texturising sprays, gels, pomades, creams, serums, hair clips, and the unplugged curling wand.

When Kiyoomi’s hand goes to his right shoulder, Atsumu breaks the stalemate and watches the action.

“It’s better than yesterday…” Kiyoomi begins without prompting, realising just how little he’d spoken to Atsumu today, choosing to fester in silence mostly, and only replying to Atsumu’s long winded yapping to turn down his offers. “But worse than this morning.”

Atsumu nods, he’d nudged, the door had creaked open, so it’s time for just a little more.

“Ya know,” he starts, eyes going back to the small side cabinet, hand picking up and toying with the curling wand, “I do think I’ll be able ta do your hair. I’ve watched ya do it enough. It’s clearly annoyin’ ya. Plus,” he adds with a grin more natural than before, “I’m just incredible full stop”

“You’ll mess it up,” Kiyoomi replies.

“Couldn’t be worse than it is now.” 

“I’d rather bleach it that dehydrated piss colour you used to have.”

“I think you’re being incredibly dramatic.” 

“I think you're being an idiot,” Kiyoomi turns to face him properly.

“I don’t think you can say that.” 

“I think you're deflecting.” 

“Maybe,” Atsumu’s grin gets slightly wider and points the ceramic curling wand at Kiyoomi, “but I think you're running out of excuses.” 

“I think you should shut up.” 

“I think you've lost,” Atsumu finishes, his grin commandeering an air of triumph, revelling in the full body sigh Kiyoomi huffs, the most himself he’d looked in the last forty eight hours. 

When Kiyoomi fixes him with a steady look and doesn’t make to retort, Atsumu takes that to be as close to a yes as he’s going to get. He dashes to the kitchen, hauling a chair over his head to bring back to the bathroom before Kiyoomi has time to regret his almost, kind of, agreement.

He places the chair gently and pushes it lightly against Kiyoomi’s knees, avoiding another mirror glare. “Now, sit your pretty little ass down,” Atsumu instructs. 

On any other day, Kiyoomi might have had something to say, but he silently obliges instead and opts to become a brooding cloud in a kitchen chair.

Atsumu plugs in the sleek black curling iron, flicks on the little switch, and balances it precariously on the linoleum of the bathroom sink, before slowly dragging over the little cabinet inundated with the entirety of Kiyoomi’s hair products, which wobble and shiver along with the friction of the floor. Then he takes his time selecting the few items he’ll need, and sorts them into a little cluster in the top drawer for easy access. 

“Is that necessary?” Kiyoomi’s voice is tinted with judgement, but Atsumu knows him either too well or not enough and just laughs it off.

“Quit judgin’ the process doll face,” he goes to pinch Kiyoomi’s cheek, but is quickly swatted away and he scolds the reciprocation. “Stop moving your shoulder.” 

“You can’t tell me that when you’re provoking me.” Kiyoomi glares. 

Atsumu sighs and moves in front of him, a comb in one hand, “I didn’t make you do it.”

“Yes you did.”

“No,” Atsumu says seriously, adopting an air of condescension, “you have free will. There is no way I can force you or anyone else to do anything. Pressure and responsibilities are all an illusion. You taught me that Omi-Kun!” He beams a little too proud of himself. He enjoys nothing more than using Kiyoomi’s own pseudo-philosophical rants against him (even if he knows he completely butchers them every time); it really invokes a feeling like no other when Kiyoomi responds by scrunching his face, pinching the bridge of his nose, and sighing deeply with a look of resignation settling onto his features. All of this Atsumu gets to watch again now, done in painstaking slow motion.

He chuckles and plants a kiss on the top of Kiyoomi’s head and places a hand under his chin, tilting his face up to look at him. He smiles softly, a silent assurance, a promise. Maybe a small plea for mercy.

From the top drawer, Atsumu selects four sectioning clips and hands them to Kiyoomi to hold before tenderly brushing his hair. All of the product Kiyoomi had put in as an attempt to add texture and shape without having to curl it, causes the comb to catch lightly - whenever this happens, Atsumu places his fingers at the root of the hair, and teases out the small knots gently, until the hair is smooth, the comb gliding through unencumbered. Then he parts it down the middle, giggles at Kiyoomi with a middle parting - Kiyoomi mentally kicking him - then divides the hair into quarters, hand opening in front of Kiyoomi’s nose for a clip to help divide and hold each section in place. 

He is aware of Kiyoomi watching him fastidiously however he can, whether through the large mirror behind him or attempting to tilt his head up and look. Atsumu elects to ignore this, humming and feigning an air of being undaunted, rather than recognising the crippling pressure bouncing against the mirror and stabbing him in the back. 

He believes he can do it, knows he can. And yet he’s somewhat nervous, he only ever wants to take care of Kiyoomi, to be there for him; to hold his hand when he’s nervous, tease him when he takes himself too seriously, do his hair when he needs him to; silently and actively prove his love for him every day in every way he can.

He turns around and picks up the curling wand, a little green light shining on it now, and puts it on its heat proof mat beside him on the cabinet, the wire stretching lamely to the socket on the wall. Astumu begins to separate a lock of hair from the first section at the back of Kiyoomi’s head, brushes it out once more, holds it flat in his left hand, and reaches for the curling iron again.

“Use the glove.”

His hand pauses over the handle. “What?”

“Use the glove,” Kiyoomi repeats, giving a side eye to the black curler. “It’s in the bottom drawer, a little black glove for the hand that curls the hair. So you don’t burn yourself.”

“Awk Omi,” Atsumu gushes, one hand going to his chest in mock gratitude, “ya really care about me.”

“No,” Kiyoomi drags the word out, “I only care about your hands. In a strictly professional sense.” He adds the last part quickly before Atsumu’s mind can form the crude response he knows to expect - it doesn’t take anyone long to learn to expect them.

“Uh huh,” Atsumu says slowly, dropping the hair and bending down to the aforementioned drawer, “I’m sure.” He doesn’t have to look at Kiyoomi to see the whites of his eyes as his pupils look for the back of his head.

He finds the glove exactly where Kiyoomi had said it would be, and slips it onto his right hand, thinks about it, and changes it to his left hand before brushing out the hair once again and resuming his position. He picks up the wand, places the long cylinder near the root, and neatly curls the short hair around the barrel until his fingertips are nearly touching it.

“One, two, three,” he counts purposefully, eyes never wavering from the lock of hair, while Kiyoomi’s eyes are trying to see through Atsumu to the mirror.  
“Fifteen.” Atsumu finishes and slides the wand out carefully so the little rivulet keeps its shape for as long as possible. He repeats the process until the back half of Kiyoomi’s hair is a gentle tidy mess of perfectly shaped ringlets; smaller towards the back where the hair is a lot shorter, slowly getting fatter as they come closer to the front.

He reaches over himself for the little can of hairspray, and as he does, Kiyoomi bends in the opposite direction to appraise Atsumu’s work.

“Look at me,” Atsumu says straightening up, hairspray now in hand, and Kiyoomi obliges. He closes his eyes and holds his breath as Atsumu gently pushes on the top of the can, held a good sixteen centimetres away, coating the curls in a slight mist of hairspray. Halfway there.

Atsumu stretches his back, and Kiyoomi eyes flick over to him from where they had been trying to see his hair in the mirror. Again. 

“You okay?”

“Yeah, just from hunching. Be fine,” 

Kiyoomi raises an eyebrow. “You could grab a chair for yourself,” he offers.

“Nah, you’ll be too tall then… unless,” he feels the flash in his own eyes as his mouth changes into a conspiracy. He moves to the side, steps closer to Kiyoomi and raises his foot, letting it hover in the air above his knees. “May I?”

Kiyoomi watches him, a pout forming on his mouth, determined not to let Atsumu see his amusement at his ridiculousness; one foot in the air, an eyebrow raised and cocky half grin on his face, and decides to wait just a moment longer. He knows how much Atsumu respects his boundaries, knows he’d never do anything that could make him even slightly uncomfortable. Kiyoomi knows this, and if he uses this knowledge to watch his boyfriend strain on one slightly squatted leg for a moment longer than he should, well, then he does. 

“Yes Atsumu,” he concedes and watches the half grin turn to one of genuine glee.

Kiyoomi knows Atsumu doesn’t mind waiting for him - he has before - knows he will accept the times when Kiyoomi can’t bear to be touched, to be open, to be vocal - he has before - because for him, waiting for Kiyoomi to be ready, one hundred percent, is far more satisfying than getting even ninety nine percent before Kiyoomi is absolutely ready. 

It scares Kiyoomi sometimes, knowing how much love Atsumu pours out of himself, how much he is willing to do for him, all the little accommodations and silent sufferings. It scares him now as Atsumu hums an upbeat tune on his lap, carefully brushing out his hair, expertly curling it, because he clearly has paid attention. It terrifies but thrills him all the same, like free falling before your parachute is engaged. This thrill and excitement always finds a way to trip him up and make him fall over and over again. The butterflies never cease, the world never stops turning.

“You’re heavy,” he says instead of any of this and Atsumu huffs a laugh onto his hair.

“You’re strong enough to take it,” he winks despite his eyes still very much concentrating on Kiyoomi’s hair. All the same, he shifts his weight, dispersing it more evenly, all for Kiyoomi’s comfort.

“Done!” Atsumu eventually exclaims, hands flying into the air and a proud grin like that of an over eager child showing off their newest creation etched onto his face, and Kiyoomi once again understands the meaning of the word beautiful. 

Atsumu puts down the wand and begins to shuffle himself off Kiyoomi’s lap, who tells him, “no you’re not,” while attempting to lean over and look at himself. 

Kiyoomi’s line of sight is suddenly blocked by Atsumu’s hand as he scolds, “no, I can feel the judgment radiating off you, so no looksies until I’m done.”

“Looksies?”

“I said what I said and I’m standing by it.” 

Kiyoomi feels Atsumu stretching away from him, the pressure of his hand against his eyes becoming softer, but he remains in place, compliant to Atsumu’s demands. He feels something being placed over Atsumu’s hand, which slides from its position, being replaced by soft fabric. 

“Is this my tie?” Kiyoomi asks.

Atsumu just hums his reply, eyes scrunching in concentration, trying to get it to sit correctly to make sure Kiyoomi can not peek, while also not mussing up his expert curling job. He pauses in his movements and looks behind him, then on the cabinet, then in the top drawer. Perched in the back left corner is exactly what he needs. He pulls out a singular, small bobby pin, and slides it into place, smiling at his innovativity.

“It doesn’t feel very secure,” Kiyoomu mutters, another pout on his lips.

“Shut up,” Atsumu counters, “it just has to stay in place while I do your hair, not against pillow friction.” He swears he can see the material move along with Kiyoomi’s eyes which he knows are rolling, searching for redemption from a higher plane.

Atsumu picks up the red tin of hair spray again, warns Kiyoomi, and again lets a light mist of it fall over the last of his hair, little droplets clinging and settling into place. The smell of it mingles with the cloying menthol already seated there.

He replaces the spray, closes his eyes a moment, and tries to recall the next step; does he back comb, or separate the curls now? He bites his lip in concentration, he doesn't need Kiyoomi knowing that he isn’t one hundred percent sure of himself.

“Separate the curls,” Kiyoomi instructs, interrupting the silence.

“I knew that,” Atsumu mumbles, flicking him lightly on the forehead, receiving a skeptical noise in return.

He stands behind Kiyoomi and runs his fingers through the nest of curls from back to front gently, careful not to tug on areas where the hair spray might be more obstinate. He fluffs out the hair gently, and looks over his work, checking that no curl is left unwound. 

“What time is it?” Kiyoomi asks when Atsumu’s hands leave his hair.

“We’ll be fine,” Atsumu replies, picking up the pink backcombing brush.

“You need to get ready too.”

“I’ve showered already, I just need to change and put some stuff in my hair, it’ll be fine. Besides, you can look good for the both of us.” 

He can see the little creases in Kiyoomi's forehead, knows he’s worrying. He sees the set in his jaw, knows he’s anxious. Atsumu bends down and brushes the sweeping fringe out of his way, placing another soft kiss on the lines of his forehead. 

“Stop clenching, you’ll get a headache,” he murmurs against his skin, and feels the little huff Kiyoomi breathes, dusting against his neck. “I always look gorgeous anyway, dunno what yer worried about.” 

He lifts the curls of Kiyoomi’s fringe and gently teases the roots, one clump at a time, until the hair is so fat and voluptuous at the bottom it nearly stands up, and picks up the final brush of Kiyoomi’s ritual. He goes through the next steps meticulously; small swift strokes upwards on the underside of the fringe, places a hand under it, then brushes the hair down and over the hand, shaping it as he goes. 

Atsumu never really understood why Kiyoomi spent so much time on his hair and just how many steps there were to it. He never saw much of a difference between his hair before and after. It is excessive, but he never considered, for even a minimal fraction of a second, skipping any of them. Maybe it is a little bit neater afterwards, or the hair bump (in Atsumu’s vernacular), is a little more sleek and defined. Truthfully, Atsumu loves his hair the most when it stands up, a little wild and messy, wiry curls protruding in every direction and a little flattened on one side after he wakes up. Atsumu had once compared it to Doc in Back to the Future after he’d woken up and it was a particular shade of messy. Not out loud of course. Well, not out loud to Kiyoomi. 

After finishing the brushing, he admires his work and picks up the hairspray one last time, holds the odd piece of hair in place, and once again gives it a coating of hairspray, a little more liberal this time. Then he grabs the small silver tin of pomade, scrapes out a lump about the size of his thumb nail, rubs it in his hands to warm it up, and works on catching the last few stray hairs, picking up the curler here and there to add a last little curl where needed, and finally turns it off.

He takes a step back to admire his work. He has to admit, it turned out better than he expected. Not that he was ever going to let Kiyoomi think that he didn’t think it would come out any less than absolutely immaculate.

He washes his hands before taking the pin off the tie, catching the fabric before it falls.

Kiyoomi looks up at Atsumu who’s smiling tenderly back at him, and his heart lurches just a little at the delicate expression. 

“Best ya’ve ever looked if I dare say so myself,” Atsumu says, destroying the silent moment just as artfully and terribly as he always does.

Kiyoomi snorts in response and leans over trying to get a look at himself, and Atsumu obligingly moves aside, going to put the tie back with the suit hanging on the shower railing.

“I’m gonna get changed, I’ll help ya after,” he’s crossed the bathroom and is walking out the door before Kiyoomi can say anything.

Kiyoomi stands up and inspects his hair closer, tilting his head down, back up, and turning his head left then right. He scolds his surprise, of course Atsumu has paid attention, he always does. He cares so much, so freely, and Kiyoomi knows that Atsumu knows that all of this is about more than just hair.

When he returns a few moments later, Atsumu is wearing his dress trousers, shirt only half buttoned, his own tie loose around his neck, a look of hesitant concern on his face when he sees that Kiyoomi is still inspecting his hair.

“Is it,” he hesitates, “is it okay?”

Kiyoomi nods, unable to speak. He never was good with words, and when he tries, he often says too much or too little, but never the right thing.

Atsumu nods knowingly, “knew it, my hands are magic, always have been. But sure, you should know that already.” There's a glint in his eye, and both of them feel more at ease than they have since Kiyoomi had woken up with an ache in his shoulder yesterday morning.

“Thank you,” Kiyoomi breathes, “for everything-”

“Shut up,” Atsumu rolls his eyes this time.

“No.” Kiyoomi pauses, resolute he’s going to say it. Atsumu shows his love so loudly, so firmly, so clearly, and Kiyoomi hates that he cannot love like that. He knows Atsumu knows how much he loves him in his own quiet way, in the small things he does, but that doesn't mean he doesn’t want to try. He doesn’t want Atsumu burning himself out, he needs to be his fuel. 

“Let me finish. Thank you. Not for my hair, but for everything. I-” he gulps and continues when Atsumu opens his mouth to respond. “I don’t do well with injuries and sickness, which you already know… If it wasn’t for you, if I didn’t have your support-”

“Shut up.” Atsumu repeats far more solidly. He steps closer to him and puts a hand to Kiyoomi’s cheek, Kiyoomi leaning into the touch. “I already know all this and ya don’t have to worry about ‘if I weren’t here’ cos I am. Fer as long as ya want me, and I know ya want me,” he wiggles his eyebrows in mock suggestiveness, in a way that only Atsumu could manage to make endearing.

“I do. I love you. So much.”

“Ew,” Atsumu pulls a face and laughs at the exasperated fondness of Kiyoomi’s. “I know, and ya show me that everyday.”

They stand in silence, time slipping away, inconsequential, just basking in the presence of the other.

“‘Mon,” Atsumu says, finally breaking the silence, “we’re gonna be late so get naked, I’ve a suit ta put on ya.”

**Author's Note:**

> my [twitter](https://twitter.com/ohmiyamy/status/1311798257882931203?s=20) if ya wanna come say hi


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